


Blood of my Blood

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, Marriage Proposal, R plus L equals J
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 16:16:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9131926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: “And we’re not siblings anymore,” she continues as if he hadn’t spoken. “You know that as well as I.” They’d received a raven confirming it only this week. It should make it better, that they’ve been sharing a bed as cousins rather than brother and sister. Sansa can hardly even admit to herself the truth of it; that she comes hardest and longest when she thinks of him as her brother. Perhaps he is not the only one who is something of a Targaryen inside.





	

To call it a plan would be generous. It’s more of a notion. An impulse. The mild articulation of a deeply held desire.

“Perhaps we should marry.”

Jon is nearly asleep when she says it, on his stomach at her side, cheek pillowed on his crossed forearms. It’s too warm in her chamber for linens, especially after the hours he just spent making her nearly weep with pleasure, and Sansa has been looking upon him idly for some time, appreciating the sweep of his back, usually so pale but tinged bronze now in the firelight, the dip of his spine and the rise of his arse. It’s rare to see him in such repose; if their days are not filled in preparation for the coming battle, they’re filled in preparation for the deepening Winter. Jon has never been one to lay idle, even under far more leisurely conditions.

“Marry,” he echoes now in a mumble, and for a moment she thinks this will be easier than she’d imagined. Then he opens his eyes to look at her, a familiar frown creasing his brow. “What do you mean?”

Sansa sighs, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. Really, he can be so very…him. “How many meanings of the word ‘marry’ do you know, Jon?”

“Each other?”

“Well I’m hardly asking on Davos’s behalf. Much to his dismay, I’m sure.”

Jon flushes. He’s never quite adjusted to Davos’s devoted fealty. Understandable, given that he’d spent years thinking he’d have no more than a bastard in the world could expect. He’d never thought to be Lord Commander, let alone any sort of a King. “How can we marry? We’re…”

“Siblings?” she provides. “That’s hardly stopped us from fucking.”

“Sansa!” His tone is one of shock, but she knows he secretly enjoys the salty edge of her tongue.

“And we’re not siblings anymore,” she continues as if he hadn’t spoken. “You know that as well as I.” They’d received a raven confirming it only this week. It should make it better, that they’ve been sharing a bed as cousins rather than brother and sister. Sansa can hardly even admit to herself the truth of it; that she comes hardest and longest when she thinks of him as her brother. Perhaps he is not the only one who is something of a Targaryen inside.

Jon rolls to his back, turning his face away from her as if it will end the conversation. “We’ve far too many important things to deal with to waste time on weddings.” Sansa tugs his face towards her with a none too gentle hand.

“More proposals come every day. For you and for me. Soon it will become an insult that you continue to refuse them with no good reason.”

“Battling White Walkers isn’t good reason?” he asks heatedly as he rolls onto his side to face her, his scowl turning thunderous. “Dealing with Winter isn’t good reason?” If he thinks to put her off the topic, he’s failing. Few things make Sansa’s body heat and throb the way his passion does, whether it’s in the service of lust or anger.

“Not to those who think more of tomorrow than they do of the day after it. A wife is a reason not to accept a proposal, not a White Walker. This is how things are done, you know that as well as I. Alliance doesn’t wait for victory. And we may lose many of ours if you turn down every offer and stay unmarried.”

He sees the sense of her words. She can see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice when he says, “You said you’d never marry again. You said no man would ever have that power over you.”

She softens, flowing over him like melted wax, willing him to understand her heart with the feel of her lips on his, her breasts pushed against his chest, her thigh thrown over his hip and her hand on his already hard cock, helping it to slip and notch and slide home inside her.

“You are no mere man,” she says into his mouth. “You’re Jon, my Jon.”

With a groan, he abandons himself to her, hooking his elbow under her knee and tugging it high on his side as he moves inside her. She wraps her arms around his shoulders, opens her mouth against his, clings to him in a way far more desperate than she’d ever allow herself anywhere but here in her bed with him. His tongue is soft and warm in her mouth, his cock hard and hot in her cunt. She wants him so very badly, wants to open herself up and pull him inside her to never let go. He is the only measure of joy she’s found in so long, the only way she knows sometimes that Ramsay did not break her completely.

“I wanted to protect you,” he rasps as he abandons her mouth and contorts himself to reach her breasts, laving each peak in turn with the wetness of his tongue.

“You do,” she gasps. “You can. I’ll be safe as your wife.”

“I wanted to protect you from me.” The words sound as if they’ve been wrenched from his chest. “I wanted you to know you were free, no matter what, never beholden to anyone.”

Sansa laughs, filling her bedchamber with the gay, joyous sound of it. “Oh Jon, you make no sense at all.”

He finds her mouth with his again as he pushes her to her back and follows to lie atop her for a moment, still and motionless but for his kiss. When he moves again, it’s slow, so slow, she could go mad from it. She nearly does by the time he drops his hand between them to touch her, and it takes only seconds for him to make her peak so strongly that her toes curl against his calves. He follows suit, spilling within her until he collapses atop her, cheek pillowed on her breast.

For a long time, neither of them speaks. His hair is soft and cool between her fingertips as she toys with it idly, like she once did with Lady’s fur on quiet evenings. Then Jon heaves a sigh. He kisses the soft inner curve of her breast, his beard a dull bristle on the fine skin, before rolling to his side and pulling her close to him, his implicit signal that it’s time to sleep.

“We’ll speak on it in the morning.” She can feel the words in his chest where she’s pressed against him. Sansa allows herself a small smile. In anyone else, it would be nothing like a yes. In Jon, Sansa knows this battle is already half won.


End file.
